


Scorpions

by sir_not_appearing_in_this_archive



Series: A Midwinter Tale [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Murder Family, Silence of the Lambs References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:57:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sir_not_appearing_in_this_archive/pseuds/sir_not_appearing_in_this_archive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There was one name no one could say in Will Graham’s class,  and the name had been on the tip of Clarice Starling’s tongue since day one: Hannibal Lecter.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The second half of this story, this fic will vaguely cover events of _Silence of the Lambs_. If you haven't read the first fic in this series, this one probably won't make much sense.

Through a white haze of shock Will Graham felt himself be processed. It was a familiar experience, though this time he didn’t have the aid of a fevered mind or the cold comfort of familiar faces around him. The officials spoke in French, but he hardly listened to their words. Feigning a catatonic state wasn’t difficult. He could hardly summon the strength to breathe. Nothing felt quite real to him.

Only when he was back in the US, in the custody of the FBI, did he speak. Psychologist after psychologist poked and prodded his mind, and he gave them the right answers. He shook and wept when it was appropriate, and he didn’t have to reach far for inspiration. He felt simultaneously hollow and filled with sharp edges, like if he moved wrong, his grief would pierce his skin from the inside and tear him apart. He stayed awake days at a time to avoid the nightmares, but they always came for him in the end.

Every time someone came to his cell, he expected to hear the news he feared most, that Hannibal Lecter was dead. Even the solace of his stream had been destroyed. He’d wade into the water and glance back to see Hannibal on the shore, right before a sniper blew his brains out. Will hardly ate, didn’t speak unless someone asked him a question two or three times. He should have been worried he’d end up trapped in the psychiatric hospital forever.

The haze lifted, slowly. Will heard Hannibal had recovered and gone to trial, again, and confessed to every murder they’d committed together. He also confessed to coercing Will into silence and obedience. He was sentenced to life in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Again.

One morning Alana Bloom came to see Will. He’d been taken from a cell to something more akin to a hospital room, though the doors still locked from the outside. Her heels clicked on the cheap tile floor as she walked down the hall, and she was wearing a suit that cost more than Will’s old car.

For the first time since his incarceration, Will smiled. “Alana. You’re looking well.”

“And you’re not. They tell me you haven’t been eating much.” Though she’d cultivated an aesthetic that oozed dangerous power, her eyes were as kind as they’d always been towards Will.

“I can’t eat anything unless I’m sure I know what’s in it,” Will lied.

“I thought you might want to know, we found your dogs. They’ve been with me, but I’m sure they miss you.”

Tears stung the corners of his eyes. “Thank you.”

“I had to give them names, though. They didn’t have tags.”

“Baleia is the chocolate lab. Wolf is the sheepdog.”

“ _Baleia_ , that’s lovely. What does it mean?”

“I don’t know. He—Hannibal named her. He gave them to me in an attempt to keep me docile.”

Alana sat by his bed, moving the chair close to his side. “You don’t have to lie to me, Will. I saw the way you looked at him. I know you don’t have Stockholm.” Will started to speak, but she raised her hand. “Don’t bother. He deserves to take the fall for it. He didn’t force you, but he may as well have. Before him, you weren’t—”

“A monster?”

“Lost. He led you astray. You’re a good man, Will. I don’t think you’ll hurt anyone else.”

“Freddie Lounds will be disappointed. I’m sure she was hoping for a few sequels.”

They laughed together, and Will felt reality settle for a moment. The world lost its dreamlike quality. Alana stayed for a while, and they talked about her child, and the future. Then visiting hours were over, and she stood to leave.

“You can’t see him again, you know. It’ll be a dead give away if you’re ever in the same room together.” Alana gave him a mournful expression from the door. “He’s as good as dead to you.”

“I know.” Will felt a scream build in his chest, clawing to get out. “Goodbye, Alana. Don’t be a stranger. You’re the only shrink in this place I don’t despise.”

“When you’re better, I’ll bring you your dogs.”

 

 

 

Two years after Hannibal Lecter had been recaptured, this time for good, as Dr. Frederick Chilton would assure anyone who asked, Jack Crawford made the drive out to Will’s house in Wolf Trap, Virginia. Will had returned there after his release. He’d been legally dead for a while, but Molly hadn’t wanted the house. It had still been on the market when Will became a free man. She’d sold it to him for one dollar, then asked him never to contact her again. Will could hardly blame her.

Baleia started barking before Will heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway. She ran outside as soon as Will opened the screen door, but Wolf was more wary. Will invited Jack in and made coffee.

“Where are the pictures?” Will asked, once they were both settled at his kitchen table, mugs in hand. The spring hadn’t yet taken away all of winter’s chill. Will wrapped his hands around the ceramic, soaking in the warmth.

“Pictures?” Jack had aged ten years since Will had seen him last. He had more gray hairs and the lines around his eyes were etched more deeply.

“Of the crime scene. Why else would you be here?”

Jack grimaced. “I’m not here about a case, Will. You’re not ready for that. Probably won’t ever be. Jesus Christ.” Jack took a sip of coffee. “I want to offer you your old teaching post. It’s vacant, and a new class starts in a week.”

“I’m not sure the FBI will want me molding the impressionable minds of new recruits.”

“You’re one of the best, even—” Jack stopped himself.

“Even as damaged goods.” Will gave him a wry smirk. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“What do you say? Gonna stay out here making a living fixing motors until you die?”

“I just do that for fun. Freddie Lounds actually gives me part of her royalties.”

“You asked her for that?” Jack straightened up, eyes wide in surprise.

“I tried to refuse, but she insisted. Apparently once word got around that I was—” Will grimaced, “—Hannibal Lecter’s last victim, there was public outcry in my defense. Freddie was trying to placate the Twitterverse. It pays the bills.”

“I read they offered her a movie deal, but she refused.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard in a while.”

“So?” Jack put his coffee down. “I need an answer.”

For a long moment Will stared out the window at the expansive fields. In the shadows of trees snow still lingered. “Alright. When do I start?”


	2. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back from my little hiatus! Few quick notes before I get this going:
> 
> First, chapter lengths in this story are going to be a little shorter, and maybe more erratic.
> 
> Second, I decided to go the Ellen Page route for this Clarice, and I made some changes/additions to her character for the purposes of this fic. Some of it is just wish-fulfillment, some is necessary for the plot, but I hope it's not too far-fetched for anyone. I'm going to be taking liberties for the whole _Silence_ story, but hey, that's what fic is for, right?

There was one name no one could say in Will Graham’s class. The penalty for breaking the taboo was instant failure, but in three years only a handful of people had been stupid enough to push their luck. Graham was a legend, for more reasons than one. The students at Quantico whispered about him in the halls, but you could hear a pin drop in the pauses during his lectures. And the lectures were amazing. Will Graham had a way of looking at things that few students were failed to be impressed by. He was a genius.

Graham’s one rule wasn’t ever official. He never announced it at the start of the first class, but every new recruit learned it within hours of orientation.

“Doesn’t that strike anyone as a little Voldemort-eqsue?” Ardelia Mapp asked after their first lecture with Graham. “He-who-must-not-be-named?”

“Can you blame him?” Asked another student. “I mean, he was, you know—”

Ardelia kicked the guy in the back of the knee so hard he almost fell over. “Shh!” she hissed.

Will Graham himself was walking down the hallway towards them, shuffling a stack of papers and not seeming to pay attention to anything a foot past his glasses. Later Ardelia would swear that Graham almost laughed when the other student had abruptly fallen against the wall after she kicked him.

Everyone knew there was one person you couldn’t ask questions about in Will Graham’s class, and the name had been on the tip of Clarice Starling’s tongue since day one: _Hannibal Lecter_. She wasn’t alone in her idle curiosity. Her roommate, Ardelia, had passed more than one lunch break with her talking about Lecter’s profile.

“Anyone who wants to work in the BAU is practically an expert.” Ardelia paused to eat a fry. “I even read Freddie Lounds’ book.”

Clarice snorted. “Half of it is lies. She thinks Graham is a serial killer, too.”

“Maybe he is,” Ardelia mused darkly. “Ever notice how he won’t look anyone in the eye?”

“Because everyone keeps staring at him like he’s a victim. I’d hate it, too.” Clarice’s Southern drawl got stronger the more passionately she felt about a subject, despite her attempts to hide it.

Usually her coursework and training took up too much of her time for Clarice to dwell on Graham. But she did stop in her tracks one afternoon as she passed a group of people and overheard his name.

“—never heard the story of how it started?”

“Yeah, Professor Graham lost it—”

Clarice butted into the conversation. “Were you there?”

“No,” the woman said. She was a familiar face, but Clarice had never caught her name. “But Simmons, she works for Jack Crawford, she was in the class when it happened. It was his first day back, since, you know, and this asshole raises his hand when Graham asks for questions. Everyone knew he meant about the lecture, but this guy decides to talk about You-Know-Who—”

“You can use his name, this isn’t _Harry Potter_.” Ever since Ardelia made the comparison, Clarice had been able to think of nothing else when people used euphemisms.

“Fine, the guy asks about Hannibal Lecter, really inappropriate personal stuff, too, if Simmons is telling the truth. Graham flipped his shit, kicked the guy out, banned him. No one else even mentioned the name again until the next group came. Same thing happened. After that, people caught on.”

“Can’t imagine him raising his voice,” Clarice said. “He seems so quiet. People here ought to know better than to ask him about it. This isn’t high school.” She felt a little like it was, though, since they were clustered in a tight group gossiping about a teacher.

“If you ever wanna see him go off the rails, just mention Lecter in front of him.”

_Not fucking likely_ , Clarice thought as she hurried to her next class. She wanted to work in the BAU after graduating. Failing Graham’s course would ruin her chances. Working with Jack Crawford had been her dream since she’d heard him speak at UVA. Nothing would get in her way.

 

 

 

Professor Graham seemed to hold office hours so erratically that no student would ever be able to go to them. That was just one of the eccentricities the Academy put up with to have him on staff. But he’d given Clarice a B on a paper she knew she deserved higher on, so she sprinted from the range to his classroom, knowing she only had minutes before she’d have to dash off to her next class.

As she rounded the corner, she saw Graham leaving his classroom, briefcase in hand.

“Professor!” She shouted, happy that her few weeks here had increased her lung capacity and endurance. “I’d like a word.”

“Sorry,” Graham looked at his watch, avoiding eye contact, as usual. “Just missed office hours. Try again next week.”

“Next week you’ll be climbing out a window to avoid me. Why don’t you just save us both the trouble and listen for thirty seconds?”

“Are you even in my class?” He finally looked at part of her face, even if he didn’t get anywhere near her eyes. “I don’t recognize you.”

“New recruit, just been here three weeks. Sir,” she added, belatedly.

“What do you want?”

“I disagree with your interpretation of the—”

“Oh, god, you want a higher grade. Sorry. What was your name?”

“Starling. Clarice Starling.”

“Well, Ms. Starling, if you want an A, you’ll have to try harder. Your thinking was good, but you didn’t go deep enough.”

“You remember my paper?” She half thought he was bullshitting just to get rid of her.

“I remember everyone’s papers. Unfortunately. At least you know what an Oxford comma is.”

“If I could just explain—” Clarice _had_ gone deep enough. She’d stayed up all night working on that damned profile.

“Look, I have to go home and feed my dogs. This is the FBI, Ms. Starling, not some community college. Step it up, and your grades will reflect it.”

“What kinda dogs you got?” she asked before she could stop herself. It would only sound like a desperate bid to curry favor.

“Hungry ones.” His voice had an edge that made Clarice momentarily rethink her stance on Freddie Lounds’ book.

“Right. Thanks for your time, sir.”

“Hm.” Graham nodded, eyes moving restlessly, until his gaze brushed across hers. He froze for half a second, then looked away quickly. “You’re late for class.”

Clarice swore and dashed away.

 

 

 

“You hot for teacher or something?” Ardelia asked without preamble as she strolled into their dorm room that evening.

“What?” Clarice looked up from the textbook she’d been reading.

“I heard you went to see Graham during his so-called ‘office hours.’” Ardelia made air-quotes as she said it.

“Yeah, so? I had a question about my grade.”

“Mhmm. Just as long as you don’t sleep with him for an A.”

Clarice made a gagging noise. “Gross. Not gonna happen. Can’t imagine him taking anyone up on the offer, anyway. He hates everybody.” She’d even spotted him being sharp with Jack Crawford himself, and Crawford hadn’t torn him a new one, either.

“You’re telling me he’s not your type? With those big blue eyes?” Ardelia sat on her bed, grinning.

“I don’t really have a type,” Clarice evaded.

“If I were into men, he’d probably check a few boxes for me.” Ardelia’s tone had been light and confidant as always, but Clarice could see she was bracing herself for a reaction.

“Well, I’m not really into anyone. I’m ace.” If Ardelia trusted Clarice enough to come out as a lesbian, she could return the favor in kind.

“Perfect,” Ardelia leaned back on her bed. “You can be my wingman.”

“If we ever have time for a social life, that is.”

“Of course I’d get stuck rooming with a book nerd. Making me feel guilty.”

They spent the rest of the night studying and carefully avoiding the subject of Will Graham.

 

 

 

A month later, the first body was found, bloated and partially skinned.


	3. 2

When Jack Crawford came to visit him after his lecture, Will felt a strange sense of déjà vu that made him ache with nostalgia. The Minnesota Shrike case had been what brought him into Hannibal Lecter’s orbit. Now here Jack was, about to ask him for help again.

“We need to talk.”

A few students gave them curious glances as they left. Will noticed the one girl, Starling, start whispering with a tall black woman as they shuffled to the exit. He couldn’t remember the other girl’s name. M something. It was hard to put faces to the names on the papers when he spent most of his time avoiding looking at anyone.

“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the fifth body?” Will kept his voice low, and glared in the direction of any student who got too close.

“My office, five minutes.” Jack headed for the door. The students parted for him like they’d been pushed back by a forcefield. Will wished he could manage the trick. All he produced in people was sympathy and a chorus of whispers.

Once they were safely behind Jack’s closed office door, Will dropped his grumpy-old-man act and took off his glasses, slipping them into his pocket. Jack handed him a thick file.

“I thought you said I wouldn’t have to do this again.”

“Just want an opinion. No field work, nothing—”

“Dangerous. Yeah. I’m not sure—” Will looked at the innocent manila folder stuffed full of horrors. “Not sure it’s a good idea, anyway.”

“You said you were doing fine, that you’d started to put it all behind you. It’s been five years, Will. You’re safe from him.”

“I’m worried if I start back down that road, letting killers get into my head, that I’ll relapse.”

“It’s not like falling off the wagon. You’re in control. Just a profile, like you do every day in your lectures.”

Will hesitated. He was only half lying to Jack. He knew his mind was as sharp as it had always been. He was as capable of helping Jack find this killer as he’d been the first time Jack asked for his help. But everything that even brushed against his memories of life with Hannibal burned like acid. He didn’t want to remember, because what Alana had said in the mental hospital had been right. He’d never see Hannibal Lecter again. Will had to live with the knowledge that the love of his life was locked away, suffering, because of his choices. And Will couldn’t even bring himself to regret it—saving Alana had been the right thing to do. He just wished it had ended differently. Will had gone over that night a thousand times, trying to find a version of events that would have solved all their problems.

But what Jack said was also true. He did need to move on with his life. He’d started, but he still kept himself apart from the rest of the world, hiding away even when he was in the middle of the Academy.

“I’ll look. But I can’t make any promises. It’s—it’s not as easy as it used to be.” When Will stripped away the pieces of his own personality, Hannibal was usually waiting in the darkness for him.

“Thank you. I don’t want you to push yourself. Do what you can. We’re just scrambling on this one.”

“I’ll let you know.” Will stood and tucked the file into his briefcase. He’d look it over at home. He slipped his glasses back on and left Jack’s office.

He nearly ran right into Starling, the petite girl who’d chased him down about her grades. She’d been staring at her phone while walking. Will could imagine what Hannibal would have to say about that. Still, Will felt a slight fondness for her. He knew it was because of her appearance—she reminded him a little of Abigail with her dark hair and fair skin. But her eyes were different. She had a confidence that Abigail never had the chance to gain with age.

“Oh my god—sorry, sir—” Starling looked up and saw who he was. Her pale skin turned ashen. “Professor—”

“It’s alright. What are you doing here?” Will became suspicious. Was she following him, now? He didn’t need another student with a crush on him.

“Jack Crawford asked to see me, sent someone to pull me out of class.”

Will kept his face neutral, but inside he began to seethe. “Well, don’t keep him waiting.” He brushed past her, stopping at the corner to watch her knock on Jack’s door.

_The bastard_ , Will thought. Sometimes Will forgot who was the most monstrous of them all. Jack may not have killed people in cold blood, but he used them up in his endless pursuit of justice.

 

 

 

Getting a summons from the great Jack Crawford was terrifying. Clarice was almost convinced she was being kicked out of the program for some unknown infraction. But despite her nerves, her hands were steady as she knocked and entered his office.

Jack Crawford sat behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose and a dozen papers spread before him. Some were reports, others photos.

“You asked to see me, sir?” If it was bad news, she resolved to take it gracefully.

“Sit down, please.”

Clarice did, sure that doom was about to fall on her.

“I’d like you help with an assignment. It’s nothing serious.” Despite his words, Crawford gazed at her over the top of his glasses with an expression that belonged at a funeral. “We’re collecting psychological profiles on serial killers in custody, but we’ve got one holdout.”

Gazing around Crawford’s office, Clarice took in all the photos and news stories pinned to a large cork-board. “Is that really what this is about?”

“Yes.” Crawford said it with a steady gaze and flat voice.

“And it’s not about Buffalo Bill?” She couldn’t keep the disdain out of her words at the name.

Crawford shook his head at her tone, his mouth twisting in an unamused smirk. “Thank Freddie Lounds for that one. I hoped she’d change after becoming a bestselling author.”

“It’s like the scorpion and the frog, I guess.” Starling still had no idea what this meeting was really about, but it didn’t seem like she was in trouble, at least.

“What?”

“The fable, about the scorpion and the frog.” Crawford stayed silent, so she pressed on. “The scorpion asks the frog for help crossing a river. The frog reasons that the scorpion won’t sting him, because if he does, they’ll both drown. The frog lets the scorpion onto his back, and starts swimming across. When he’s halfway to the other side, the scorpion stings him. The frog asks why he did it, since now they’re both doomed. He answers, ‘Because I’m a scorpion.’”

“That does sound remarkably like Ms. Lounds. Circumstances can’t change who a person is at their core.” Crawford seemed thoughtful after that.

Clarice cleared her throat. “You were talking about an assignment, sir?”

“Right.” He leaned forward, arms on his desk. “The last holdout. If you’re up for it, I’d like you to interview Hannibal Lecter.”

“Hannibal the Cannibal?” The name slipped out before she could stop it.

“Yes.” Crawford was watching her closely.

“No offense, sir, and I’m happy to help, but why me? I’m sure there are a dozen psychologists who could—”

Crawford laughed. “Ask Frederick Chilton how that kind of thing usually goes, when you see him. He’s in charge over at the Baltimore State Hospital. Make no mistake, Lecter is dangerous. Just talking to him can shorten your life expectancy, so tread carefully.”

“I still don’t understand why you think I’ll be able to get him to talk.”

“It’s complicated, but I’m hoping he’ll respond better to a trainee than someone on a high horse trying to poke around his head.”

“Yes, sir.” Clarice had the impression he was lying to her, or at least only telling the partial truth, but she couldn’t exactly call him out on it. “When should I leave?”

“Immediately. I’ve excused you from all your classes today. Any work you miss, you can make up.”

So he’d known she’d go for it. He’d already told all the teachers. Clarice smiled. “Pretty urgent for a simple psych profile.”

“We’d like to wrap up the project.”

Now Clarice was certain he was lying. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Oh,” Crawford stood as she did. “One last thing, and this is very important. Don’t tell Lecter anything about yourself. No personal information at all. Hell, don’t tell him your full name if you can help it. And for god’s sake, whatever you do, don’t give him your address or the names of anyone you care about. He’s dangerous. I can’t stress that enough. You don’t want him inside your head. Just ask Will Graham—if you wanna risk it.”

“I understand, sir. I’ll keep it completely professional.”

“That’s what I want to hear.” He handed her a file. “Here’s all we have on Lecter, and the survey we want him to take. Read up on him during the drive. And prepare yourself. If he doesn’t play ball, don’t beat yourself up. This is a long shot.”

Clarice took the file, feeling a little like she was standing beside her body and not in it. Talking to Lecter was a terrifying prospect, but she’d been through worse.

She sent a text to Ardelia that she’d be gone for the day, then turned her attention to the files. The FBI was going to provide her with a car to take her to Baltimore, and she waited outside the BAU building for it to pick her up. She spent the whole time reading, trying to ignore the nervous roil of her stomach.

A shadow fell over the page she was reading, and she looked up to see Will Graham watching her from behind his glasses.

“Hello, Clarice,” he said, unsmiling.


	4. 3

Though Will was well aware what kind of reputation he had around the Academy—a reputation he’d worked to maintain—he still felt a little offended at the fear in Starling’s eyes when she noticed him.

“Hello, Professor Graham.” She hurriedly closed the file she was holding, but Will already suspected what was in it. “Did you need something?”

“I just wanted to warn you.”

“About what?” Her eyes grew wide. “Did Agent Crawford tell you—?”

“He didn’t have to. I know what kind of man he is when he’s desperate. Just ask Miriam Lass.”

The name clearly meant something to Starling, but she squared her shoulders and stared up at him with resolve. “I don’t want to get in between you and Agent Crawford, professor. I’m just trying to help how I can.”

“I know. That’s what makes it so easy for Jack to take advantage of you.”

“No one’s taking advantage. Sir. And I’m not sure you’ve got a right to interfere. You don’t even know what he asked me to do.”

“If Jack’s desperate enough to bring me in to help, then he’s desperate enough to ask—” Will stopped himself from saying _my better half_ , “— _him_ for help.” Will avoided saying Hannibal’s name aloud at all costs. He knew how he sounded with it on his tongue, and someone as sharp as Starling might see right through him. “You’re going to see him.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Clarice stared straight ahead, watching the street for her car.

Will realized her fear hadn’t been _of_ him, but _for_ him. “I’m not broken, Starling. I don’t need delicate handling.”

She gave him an appraising stare. “I appreciate your concern for my well being. And I understand where you’re coming from. But I can’t run from anything that might be dangerous, not if it needs to be done. That’s why I’m here, at the FBI, in the first place. Don’t bother trying to talk me out of going.”

“I wasn’t.” Will shifted, switching his briefcase from one hand to the other. “Just wanted you to know that Jack will throw anyone under the bus to close cases.”

“You’re not warning me about Ha—him?” The car pulled up to the curb.

“No. Whatever he does to you, I don’t think he’ll hurt you. Just be polite.” Will gave her a half-smile that probably looked more like a grimace. Just as well. It would help cement the idea that he hated Hannibal in her mind.

“Thanks.” She turned, then stopped. “Oh, professor?”

“Yes?”

“Pet your dogs for me.” Clarice Starling got into the car, and it drove off. Will watched it disappear.

 

 

 

The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane was an imposing building, bleak with stark lines. Clarice supposed it was all part of the ambiance. She gathered her papers from the car and made her way up to Dr. Chilton’s office for a personal consultation before she could see Lecter.

His office was tastefully decorated, though none of the books appeared to have been read. Chilton himself was a sight—she knew what had happened to him, but seeing his scarred flesh in person was a little jarring. Still, for a guy who’d nearly been burned to death, he looked alright. Just a little melted around the edges. He greeted her at his office door and warmly ushered her inside.

“Staying in Baltimore long, Ms. Starling?”

“Not really.”

“Well, you should enjoy your stay. Baltimore has quite the night life, you just need to right person to show you around.” His intent was clear in his voice, and the way he raked his eyes over her body.

Clarice fought the urge to cover herself up with her bag. “I don’t think I’ll have time for any socializing. Agent Crawford wants me to report back as soon as I can.”

“Of course.” Chilton cleared his throat. “Do not cross the line, do not approach the glass. Do not give him anything but paper—anything at all. Are there staples in the survey?” Clarice shook her head. “Good. Can’t give him staples. No pens or pencils. Do not become overly personal with him, but do try to be polite.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Barney here will show you to him.” Chilton motioned to an orderly standing in the doorway. Clarice followed him downstairs, past all the normal cells, to the basement. Lecter had been kept in isolation during his first stay here, Clarice knew, and she was surprised to find him incarcerated in the same hallway as others.

“Stay away from the bars, ma’am,” Barney advised her as he swiped his key-card to enter the row of cells. “Lecter’s not the only monster staying down here.”

Clarice followed closely behind Barney the orderly, keeping near the wall. The men in the cells shouted things at her, running the gauntlet from gibberish to shockingly specific and graphic. The man in the cell next to Lecter’s one-upped all the others, though. He threw something at Clarice, and she only barely dodged it. The semen spattered the concrete in front of her. A little got on her shoes. It was time to buy a new pair, anyway.

Barney quickly pulled her away from that cell, leading her in a wide circle around it. “Sorry about that, ma’am. Are you alright?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” She looked from Barney’s kind, concerned face to the glass front of the cell before them. Getting semen thrown at her had unnerved and disgusted Clarice, but the sight of Lecter standing in the center of his cell, hands clasped behind his back, as if he’d been waiting for her, sent cold shivers down her spine. She felt an unreasonable prey response. Fight or flight. She stomped her fear, grinding it to dust beneath her reason. He was just a man, and one behind bars at that. Well, bullet-proof glass.

His expression was dark, almost enraged. “Terribly sorry about my neighbor’s behavior.” Hannibal Lecter stepped closer. “Barney, please, your handkerchief?”

“Yes, sir, doctor.” Barney pulled a crisp white handkerchief out of his pocket immediately, offering it to her.

“It’s fine, please,” Clarice held up her hands, “They’re just shoes. It’s not important.”

“It’s very important to me that my guests are treated appropriately.” Lecter’s dark expression changed to something that would have been charming in another circumstance. “Tell, me, Agent—?”

“Clarice. You can call me Clarice, Dr. Lecter. And I’m still a trainee.” Will’s words of warning echoed in her mind, though Chilton’s were more recent. Something about the way Graham had spoken made much more of an impression on her.

“If you insist, Clarice. How can I help you? Or, more accurately, how can I help Jack Crawford?”

Clarice handed the survey to Barney, who put it through the slot of Lecter’s cell.

“The FBI would like you to participate—”

“Forgive me for interrupting, but there’s no need to further the charade. I know why you’re here. I still receive papers.” Lecter gestured to his desk, which had a number of books, magazines, and newspapers neatly arranged on its surface. Most of the space was taken up by a large sketchbook. Clarice couldn’t quite make out what he’d been drawing.

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Please, Clarice.” He held up a hand to stop her. “You’re no more capable of deceiving me than the last trainee Jack Crawford sent to me as a sacrifice for justice.”

_Miriam Lass_. Hearing Lecter speak so casually about her made rage and fear bubble up in the back of Clarice’s throat. She opened her mouth to snap a retort, but remembered Graham’s warning to be polite. “Then why don’t you tell my why I’m really here, Dr. Lecter?”

“Jack Crawford is desperate.” Something about the way he said it reminded Clarice of Graham. Another cold shiver crawled up her back. “This new killer, banal though he is, is an embarrassment to the FBI. He leaves bodies to be found and yet you’re no closer to catching him, even with an abundance of physical evidence.”

“All I was told to do was ask you to complete the survey.” That was the truth, strictly speaking. “But if you have insight—”

“Has Jack become so frantic that he’s asked Will Graham for a profile?” Lecter’s voice softened when he said the name.

“Like I said, doctor, I’m just a trainee. They don’t tell me that sorta thing.” Another truth, but Clarice suspected Graham had been in Crawford’s office discussing Buffalo Bill.

“Barney?” Lecter addressed the orderly, who was standing a short distance away. “If Clarice and I could have a bit of privacy, please?”

“Of course, Dr. Lecter.” Barney retreated down the hall.

“What—?”

Lecter put a finger in front of his lips, silencing her with an almost mischievous gleam in his eye. Ten seconds passed, then Lecter nodded. “Sorry about the trouble, but our Dr. Chilton does like to listen in on private matters. Terribly rude.”

“He did strike me as a little boorish,” Clarice said, deciding to be honest. “He made a pass at me.”

Lecter frowned. “I preferred the accommodations more when Dr. Alana Bloom was in charge. We may have had our differences, but she wasn’t a complete fool.”

“Did you—” Clarice stopped herself.

“Did I what?” Lecter seemed amused and curious now.

“Did you really eat one of his lips after the Dragon sent them to you?” That bit was in Lounds’ book.

“Only one. I left them more than enough for the DNA test.”

“How did it taste?”

“As dull an uninteresting as the man himself.”

Clarice could think of nothing to say to that. “You had something to tell me that required privacy, sir?”

“Of course. Forgive me for getting distracted. I rarely have such pleasant visitors. But before I give you information, I’d like something in return.”

That feeling of being prey returned to her. “What would you like?” Clarice reminded herself that lives were at stake.

“Nothing inappropriate, just a bit of information. Quid pro quo.”

“Okay.” She couldn’t shake the sensation that she’d walked into a trap, or onto a minefield.

Hannibal stepped right up to the glass, watching her with unreadable eyes. “You’re a trainee, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Currently at Quantico?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me, Clarice. How is Will Graham these days?”

She froze, forcing herself not to take a step back from him. “With all due respect, Dr. Lecter, I’m not sure you’ve any right to ask about him.”

“Is he well? Happy?”

“He’s as well as a person can be after what you did to him, doctor. He’s recovering.”

“Will Graham will never recover from what I did to him, Clarice. I don’t think he’ll ever want to.” Lecter looked, though Clarice could hardly believe it, mournful as he spoke. “Could you give him a message for me?”

“If he wants to hear it, doctor.”

“Ask him to remember the last words I spoke to him, and tell him I hope that, as before, they won’t be the last exchanged between us.”

Clarice knew there was no danger of her ever forgetting the message, or the way Lecter delivered it. He struck her as very nearly lovesick, the sort of forlornness she’d only ever seen in movies. For the first time she considered the possibility that she was missing something monumental about Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter. “I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you.” Lecter’s voice lost the hint of sorrow. “Buffalo Bill lives in a two-story house.”

Clarice wrote that down on her notepad. “What else, sir?”

“More information will cost you, Clarice.”

“I’m not sure what else I can tell you about Will Graham. He keeps to himself.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me more about yourself, Clarice.”

Clarice met Lecter’s gaze unflinchingly. He towered over her, imposing even in his drab prison uniform. But his expression was cordial, benign. She thought again about the girls who’d been murdered, the daughters with mothers who loved them. Jack Crawford was counting on Clarice to do everything she could to help. This was what he’d really sent her here for, after all.

“Alright, Dr. Lecter. What’s your first question?”

“An answer for an answer?”

“Yes.”

Lecter smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fairly derivative of _Silence_ , but rest assured it's going to take a few sharp turns from the source material soon!
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone again for your response to this fic! I'm so pleased with how much support this has gotten. You're all fantastic <3


	5. 4

Clarice called Jack the moment she was out of the hospital and told him everything Lecter had said about Buffalo Bill. Then she got into the back of the car that waited for her and settled in for the drive back to Quantico. She tried to focus on the case, but her mind kept returning to the things she’d told Lecter. Clarice had done precisely what both Jack Crawford and Frederick Chilton had warned against. Yet Will Graham hadn’t said anything about not telling Lecter personal details, and wouldn’t he know best what kind of damage the man could do to someone? If Crawford asked, Clarice resolved to tell him she got the information through kindness and flattery. What she’d told Lecter would be their little secret.

When she got back to the Academy, it was late, almost midnight, but she wasn’t tired. Clarice walked towards the dorms, thinking she might sit in the lit hallway and read through her notes again. But someone was standing in front of the door, waiting for her. Will Graham had two cups of coffee, both of them still steaming, and a paper bag.

“Are you a witch or something?” Seeing the coffee made her realize she’d skipped dinner. Her stomach rumbled. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

Will shook the bag in his hand. “Not a witch. Jack called me. Do you like donuts?”

“Those are the most beautiful words anyone’s ever said to me, professor.”

“Let’s take a walk.”

She realized he’d baited and hooked her already and was reeling her in. She didn’t want to have this conversation, ever, and definitely not now. Clarice could pretend Lecter had never given Graham a message, but an irrational part of her mind warned somehow he’d know if she didn’t tell Graham what he’d said. “I don’t know, it’s kinda late—”

“I won’t bite. I just want to—to hear your thoughts on the case.”

“You mean you wanna know his contributions.” Clarice took a few steps closer, within range to take the coffee and donuts he offered. No harm in eating free food.

Graham was silent for a long stretch. “You’re thinking I must be masochistic, to want anything to do with him.”

“I was trying not to think much about it at all, sir. Can’t seem to wrap my head all the way around one of you, much less both of you.” Clarice took a bite of a donut and closed her eyes. Pure bliss.

“Did he—” Will shook his head. “Never mind. This was a mistake. Goodnight, Starling.”

“Sir, wait.” Clarice moved into his path. “He did ask me to deliver a message, but I’ll only say it if you wanna hear.”

Graham’s eyes lit up with excitement and something that might have been joy, but he stared at his feet after a second, casting his face in shadow. “Yes. You can tell me.”

“He wants you to remember the last words he said to you, and that he hopes, like before, they won’t be the last said between you two.” Clarice watched him closely. “Sir? Are you alright?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Thank you for the message.”

“Professor, sorry if I’m overstepping. I know you don’t like to talk about him, or even hear his name, but—” she hesitated.

“Go ahead. I won’t fail you.”

“Right. Lecter, he just seemed, well. Like he loved you. The way he talked about you—”

“Psychopaths don’t experience love.” Graham shut down completely. Seeing it startled Clarice a little.

“Sorry. It was stupid—I know what he did to you wasn’t love. I didn’t mean to imply it was. Guess he’s still obsessed with you.”

“I hope he isn’t.”

“Don’t worry, sir, they got him locked up pretty tight. Even if Chilton is a buffoon.”

Graham laughed. “You noticed that? Did you tell Hannibal?”

Clarice sipped her coffee, trying not to choke on it. The way Graham spoke of Lecter, like he was an old friend. It didn’t track with the man who couldn’t stand to even hear his name without warning. “I did mention it. Helped endear me to him, I think. Probably why he helped me.”

“Jack didn’t tell you?” Graham’s laughter faded. “He didn’t mention why he chose to send you to talk to him?”

“Said I’d be less threatening, basically.”

“Of course he did.” Graham rubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses up. “I’m guessing you’ve read Freddie Lounds’ book?”

“My roommate lent it to me. Practically forced me to read it.”

“Then you know who Abigail Hobbs is. Was.”

Clarice remembered the name, and the layers of tragedy around the poor girl’s life. “The one you saved, the one you saw as a daughter.”

“You remind me of her. That means Jack knew you’d remind _him_ of her, too. He was fond of her, in his own way.”

“I thought he slit her throat.”

“He was more fond of hurting me.”

“I’m sorry.” Clarice had finished her donuts, but she felt more empty inside now than before she’d eaten.

“I don’t need your pity.”

“It isn’t pity, it’s empathy. I know how much it hurts to lose someone you love.” Memories of her father were fresh on her mind, as if Lecter had torn open old scar tissue.

“Are you planning another visit to Baltimore?” Graham moved his coffee cup around in his hands, but didn’t drink.

“I think so. He was a little vague. Might have just been leading me on.”

“If you go back, could you do me a favor?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Tell me before you go. I might—I might have a message for him in return.”

Clarice said goodnight after that, still buzzing from the coffee and conversation. When she finally tried to sleep, she kept turning Graham’s actions over in her mind, trying to work them out. He’d done a few 180s on her. Especially since he wanted to say something back to Lecter. Maybe it would just be a big “Fuck you, asshole,” but she doubted it.

Maybe it was something he wasn’t even sure he could trust her with.

 

 

 

Will knew it was dangerous, waiting for Starling like that, talking to her. He’d slipped up at least once, and he knew she’d caught it. She was good at hiding her reactions, but reading people was his shtick. And his parting request might as well have been an admission of guilt. Will had never been charged with a crime, but there was no statute of limitations on murder. He had to walk the razer’s edge for the rest of his life if he wanted to avoid the death penalty.

Only, some days it didn’t seem worth it, being so careful, when his life was like a prison already. Constantly watching what he said and did around people drained him, and each day he lectured was like ripping open the wounds of losing Hannibal. Sometimes he’d wake in the middle of the night and stretch his arm out, expecting to find Hannibal lying next to him. When reality caught up it was like no time at all had passed since that day. The agony was as fresh as when they’d pulled him away from Hannibal, when Will was certain Hannibal would die. Will wished he could convince himself that Hannibal _had_ died then. The only thing worse than being certain he’d never see Hannibal again was having the faintest, most distant hope that he might. Sometimes hope was its own kind of hell. If only he could extinguish it, Will thought, he might be able to move on.

Instead he’d been reduced to practically stalking one of his students just for the chance to hear her talk about Hannibal, to hear his words paraphrased. The message had nearly undone him, and as he walked through the dark to his car, he felt tears slip down his face. At least he hadn’t completely lost his composure in front of Starling. But if he didn’t get himself together next time, he’d be putting himself at considerable risk.

The long drive home cleared Will’s head. The dogs greeted him happily when he unlocked his door, and Wolf curled up beside him as he settled down to read over the Buffalo Bill file again.

Will hadn’t adopted any new dogs since his return to his house in Wolf Trap. He occasionally thought about it, but only in a detached, hypothetical way. What kept him from expanding his little family was the persistent and almost subconscious thought that Hannibal’s patience for animals might not extend further than Wolf and Baleia. Eventually, Will knew, he’d happen upon a dog in need of adoption and give into his nature, but for now this was enough.

Around 4 AM Will began to nod off, but his ringing phone startled him awake. He didn’t bother looking at the caller ID as he answered—he knew who it was.

“Jack,” Will said, not able to keep exhaustion out of his voice, “What’s happened?”

When he spoke, Jack sounded strained. “A new victim has been taken, and this one—well, she’s a Senator’s daughter.”

The remnants of sleep evaporated from Will’s mind. He sat up so quickly he startled Wolf. “He keeps them 72 hours.”

“I’m bringing everyone in on this. Can I expect you back here soon?”

“I’m on my way.” So much for just giving Jack a simple profile. Will wouldn’t end up in the field, but he’d be at the center of this mess until it was over, one way or another.

 

 

In the quiet of the dorms, Clarice’s phone buzzed. She floated towards consciousness, but didn’t wake until the third time in a row Crawford called her.

Across a distance of hundreds of miles, as Clarice stumbled out of bed and tried to get dressed without waking Ardelia, Catherine Martin screamed until her throat was raw, her voice echoing out of the dark pit. No one answered her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to being super busy because of the holidays, I might not make the Wednesday deadline for the next update, but the next chapter will be here in a week at the latest!
> 
> In case I don't update, hope everyone who celebrates Christmas has a safe and happy one, and to everyone else, have a fantastic week! You're all amazing!


	6. 5

When Clarice Starling was shown to Hannibal Lecter’s cell for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, she noticed immediately she was being taken down a different path than before. Barney was still her guide, though he seemed a little more subdued than he’d been before. Chilton had been positively icy towards her, probably still smarting from her rejection, but Clarice couldn’t summon a bit of regret for that.

“Has Dr. Lecter been moved?” Clarice asked Barney as they took a turn down a strange hallway.

“Yes. His neighbor committed suicide last night. Dr. Chilton blames Dr. Lecter for it.”

“Why?” Clarice hurried to keep up with Barney’s long stride. “He couldn’t have hurt him, his cell is completely cut off from the others.”

“But they can still talk to each other, Agent Starling.”

“You’re saying Dr. Lecter just—just talked to the man, then he up and killed himself?”

“That’s what Chilton thinks.”

“What do you think?” Clarice pressed, sensing an evasion in his words.

“Not my place to make those kinds of judgments.” Barney came to a stop at the end of a hallway, in front of a set of imposing double doors.

“He’s in solitary now, I take it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Clarice snorted a laugh. “Probably likes it better this way.”

Barney didn’t respond, but his lips quirked up in a smile. He unlocked the doors and pushed them open.

Lecter’s new cell was devoid of decoration, the walls free of the drawings that had nearly covered his previous cell. Clarice thought Lecter looked almost lonely in the midst of so much empty space. But once again he stood as if expecting her arrival, hands clasped behind his back, a pleasant smile tugging the corners of his mouth. On anyone else the expression would have softened features, but on Lecter it just made the sharp angles of his face more predatory.

“Good morning, Dr. Lecter,” Clarice said, stepping close to the glass. Barney hovered near the door. “Sorry to visit so early.”

“No need for an apology. I was already awake.”

Clarice wondered if he could smell the exhaustion seeping from her pores. There was certainly no way to miss it in the redness of her eyes or the dark bags under them. “I’m not sure how fast you get the news down here.”

“Fast enough. Poor Catherine Martin.” Lecter didn’t sound very upset at all. “Her mother’s rank is enough to force Jack Crawford to send you back here. To me.”

“Not that the pleasure of your company isn’t its own reward.” Clarice couldn’t keep the wry smirk off her face. “Senator Martin has offered you a deal. I know you know who Buffalo Bill is, doctor, and if you tell us, and we save Catherine in time, the Senator will have you moved to a much nicer location.”

Lecter tilted his head slightly. “How did Will Graham react when you delivered my message?”

As Lecter had spoken, Clarice had been pulling the paperwork out of her bag. She paused, staring at him with open confusion before her tired mind caught up. “Oh. He—” she hesitated, partially because she wasn’t sure Lecter would want to hear the truth, and partially because Graham’s expression had been so hard to read in those moments. It already seemed like a lifetime ago. “He was certainly affected by it.”

If Lecter thought her answer too vague, he didn’t challenge her on it. He merely nodded. “And his reply?”

Clarice remembered Graham’s expression when, as they all stood around Jack’s office, scrambling for ways to save the Martin girl in time, Jack suggested Clarice return to get more info from Lecter. She’d met Graham’s eyes, an unspoken question passing between them. Graham had moved his head, barely shaking it, but enough to tell Clarice not to bother. He didn’t have a message, after all. Or not one he trusted her with.

“He didn’t give me one, doctor.” Clarice held out the papers detailing Senator Martin’s deal. “But I do have this for you.” She put it in the food tray, watching with a carefully neutral expression as Lecter retrieved it.

The majority of Clarice’s focus was on finding Catherine Martin—in the back of her mind a clock was slowly ticking away, from 72 hours to zero. But, despite Clarice’s best efforts, she couldn’t help but pick at the twin mysteries that were Graham and Lecter. It wasn’t that Graham had nothing to say to the monster in the cell before her, he just lost whatever courage he’d had the night before. That could only mean one thing, one monumental, terrifying thing, a shadow so large Clarice refused to allow it into her mind, because Catherine Martin needed her, needed everyone who could help to find her before her time was up.

But her mind continued to turn the problem over and over, and Clarice felt helpless, like she was watching herself pull away a scab before it was ready, feeling the pain and knowing it would bleed but unable to stop.

There would be blood before all this was over. Clarice knew it in that moment, she could see the future in Lecter’s polite smile. She was standing at the nexus of a thousand possible worlds, and her actions could save or doom an innocent woman. No room for missteps here.

The sensation passed as quickly as it came.

“Well?” she said, once he’d finished looking over the offer.

“The randomness of the body disposal sites seems a little too random, wouldn’t you say?”

 

 

 

“And that’s all he said about it?” Crawford sounded half angry, half exhausted. Clarice couldn’t blame him.

“Yes, sir.” She fought to keep her burning eyes open. The motion of the car was lulling her into a coma.

“You tried.” He was just defeated, now. “Get back here, get some rest. We’re investigating the moth angle. Something might turn up.”

Clarice ended the call and turned back to the file. She blinked, then let her eyelids stay closed for a moment. What felt like moments later, she jerked awake. The familiar landscape of Quantico rolled past her window. Crawford had told her to sleep, but now she felt refreshed from her accidental nap, so she headed to his office instead of the dorms.

Graham was the only person there when she barreled in. The place looked like it had been hit with a paper tornado since she’d left, and Graham himself looked like he’d just been through the usual kind of tornado. He was a wreck. There was visible dog hair on his sweater and dark circles under his eyes.

“Starling?” He slipped his glasses on as soon as he saw her, but not even those could hide him from her. Not anymore.

“We need to talk.” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she realized she wanted to say them.

“If it’s about your grade—” His joke was weak, probably haphazardly stitched together with coffee alone.

“I’m serious, sir. But not here.” Crawford or any of the other agents working the case could be back any minute.

Graham watched her through his glasses, wary. “Is it about Buffalo Bill?” He didn’t have to ask the rest, the implied, _or is it about Hannibal Lecter?_

“Yes.” Mostly, it was.

“Then why can’t we talk here?”

_Goddamn_ , Clarice wanted to shout, _do you have to be like this all the time?_ She took a deep breath. “Because nothing is ever easy with you. Both of you.”

Graham stood, draining the last of the coffee in his cup. “Alright. I need to go home anyway, take care of the dogs. You can tag along.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” It was a token objection, but one she felt she should offer, anyway. “People will talk.” With the way Graham looked, they’d make a scandal of it. She could practically hear Ardelia’s reaction in her mind.

“They’re already talking. But Catherine Martin won’t be, soon.”

Clarice nodded. If he didn’t mind, she didn’t either.

 

 

 

When he heard Starling’s stomach growl, Will stopped at a McDonald’s, ignoring her protests about time. Starling ate her breakfast with meticulous care as to where the crumbs fell until Will couldn’t take it anymore and told her he didn’t mind people eating in his car. She still seemed on edge, and Will wasn’t surprised. She was in the middle of a cluster-fuck, all of it—Buffalo Bill, Catherine Martin, him and Hannibal—it was a mess, and she was still just a trainee. She hadn’t been equipped for stakes so high, one of the many reasons Jack shouldn’t have brought her in.

But Starling was with them, now, along for the ride. Will felt the familiar need to protect her, and he kept having to remind himself she wasn’t some defenseless stray. Starling had been chosen for the FBI for a reason.

The sun still wasn’t that high above the horizon when they finally got to Will’s house. He felt like he’d left it days ago, and his dogs seemed to agree. They greeted him with their usual enthusiasm, then swarmed on Starling. Before Will could call Wolf and Baleia off, Starling sat down in the middle of his living room and began playing with them. He left them to it while he made coffee.

Once the pot was done and the dogs had been fed, Will sat with Starling at his kitchen table. She was staring into her mug like she was trying to escape through it. The entire drive here Will hadn’t allowed himself to wonder what she had to say to him that couldn’t be said at Quantico. But now his curiosity was threatening to overcome his resolve to let her speak first, when she was ready.

Starling’s hands closed around her coffee cup. “I’m going to preface all this with the promise that I’m not about to run to Crawford and tattle. I’d just like the truth, sir.” She finally looked up and met his eye. “For my own peace of mind.”

Will realized he’d put his glasses in his pocket when he’d gotten out of the car. “The truth?” He couldn’t help but fall back onto denial. He’d been doing it for five years now.

“About you and Dr. Lecter.” For a moment Starling didn’t look young at all. She looked ruthless, like a predator. “Was it really like you said? That he forced you to do those things?”

“You came all this way to accuse me of lying?” Will wanted to hide behind his coffee, or make some excuse to leave the table, but he held his ground.

“No, sir. I came out here to accuse you of being a serial killer.” She paused. “Which, now that I’m thinking on it, wasn’t the brightest idea.” Despite her words, Starling didn’t look afraid.

“I hope you at least brought your gun.” Will smirked.

“I did. Are you gonna answer me?”

He could lie, pretend to be very insulted, send her back to the FBI in a cab and wash his hands of her. That’s what Will needed to do in order to stay out of prison. Doing anything else would be recklessness bordering on madness.

“How did you know?” Will asked, voice as soft as the morning light that streamed in through the windows.

“Know what?”

“That I’m in love with Hannibal Lecter.” After all this time the words should have hurt, should have torn open wounds. Instead he felt lighter, almost free.

“You got a shitty poker face, sir.”

“Will you wait until after we catch Buffalo Bill?”

“To do what?”

“Turn me in.” Will found he wasn’t afraid of the prospect. The life he was living now wasn’t much of a life, and he was just so tired.

“Who says I’m turning you in at all?” Starling seemed genuinely surprised.

“I’m a serial killer, Starling. Not very different from the man we’re hunting.”

“Unless you have Catherine Martin or some other girl in your basement, I don’t care.” Starling rubbed her eyes. “You only did those things when you were with Dr. Lecter, right?”

“I haven’t continued, if that’s what you’re asking.” He’d never even wanted to.

“Then there’s no point. You might have feelings for Dr. Lecter, but he still made you go along with it all.”

“Why do you believe anything I say?” Will should have just let it go, taken her silence for the gift it was, but he couldn’t.

Starling turned and stared at Wolf and Baleia, who’d curled up on the couch together. “Serial killers don’t normally do so well with animals. You aren’t a psychopath, sir. And I trust you.”

“Not enough to come out here unarmed.” Will smiled as he spoke.

“Said I trust you, but I’m not stupid.” Starling rummaged through her bag, then pulled out a stack of files. “Now, about the real issue at hand.”

In the turmoil of the last few minutes, Will had nearly forgotten Starling had new information about Buffalo Bill. “You told all this to Jack?”

“Yes, sir. He didn’t seem to find it enlightening. But you know Dr. Lecter. I don’t think he mentioned the body disposal pattern just to hear himself talk.”

Will stared at the map, clearing his mind of himself and filling it back up with Buffalo Bill. As he and Starling went over the details again, pieces began to fall into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in updating! The holidays were super busy for me, then I got really sick, so I went like 2 weeks without having the time or energy to write. Thanks for being patient with me!


End file.
